The Sun And The Moon
by Lady Silvamord
Summary: AU, Ozorne and Kalasin. Because Romeo and Juliet have nothing on them. Completed at last.
1. Sleep

**Note:** Another collection of drabbles. I've written _seven_ so far, all from that little imaginary canon in my head, where Princess Kalasin marries Emperor Ozorne, in the spring of her fourteenth year. You know, Platonic and Wounds? That verse.

**01: Sleep**

Kalasin hasn't slept very well since her arrival in Carthak. It's too hot for comfort, the bed is a little too soft and the pillow a little too hard, the room is unfamiliar, and the slit in the curtains throws in a sliver of moonlight, which casts odd shadows over the walls. And above all, she isn't used to sharing a bed with _anyone._

After quite a few weeks of sleepless nights, Ozorne notices her discomfort. "Haven't been sleeping?"

"No."

Ozorne thinks on it for a moment, and dismisses her from the room, telling her that some fresh air would be nice.

That night, Kalasin wanders into their bedroom, already dressed in a nightgown a little too big for her. Ozorne sits in the window seat, neutrally playing with a ball of fire. The room is much cooler, she notices, although it's the middle of summer. The bed is a little bit harder and her pillow, a little softer.

Kalasin goes to the window seat a bit tentatively, and sits at his side. "Thank you." A faint glimmer of hesitation, and she brushes her lips against his cheek. "That was nice."

He rests one hand lightly against her back. "You're welcome." His amber eyes look into hers searchingly. "Get some rest. You're tired."

She obeys because she is too tired to argue, and as soon as she snuggles into bed, she sleeps, for the first night in a long time.

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	2. Unexpected

**02: Unexpected**

Kalasin brushes her hair out; struggling with snarls and knots. Ozorne looks at her and sighs. She fusses over her appearance far too much for his liking, but…she _is _fifteen. Her mutters of frustration are a bit amusing, though, although he takes pity on her in the end.

"Let me," he tells her, reaching for the brush.

She gives him a doubtful look in the mirror, but releases the instrument of hair care. To her surprise, he combs her hair lightly and easily, removing it of all the knots in a matter of a few minutes, until it lies down her back, smooth, straight, shiny, and perfectly complacent. Ozorne moves his fingers around in a quick, intricate pattern, and suddenly her hair has braided itself and settled into a smooth coil at the nape of her neck.

Kalasin fingers the locks, amazed, because—really, he is an Emperor Mage. A war general. Ruthless, and a killer of anyone who dares to stand in his way. Who would ever think that he had a surprising penchant for styling hair?

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Many thanks to Abiona Marchand, Lea, and music nerd for reviewing. You guys rock. -grin-


	3. Reluctant Devotion

**03: Reluctant Devotion**

Ozorne goes to great lengths to make sure that she is comfortable in her new home. He fixes the bed and the pillows, gets the curtains adjusted, and changes the décor of their room from gold and silver to various shades of blue. He makes time to take her to the menagerie, and lets her feed his birds whenever she wishes. From the lands he has conquered, he brings her little trinkets and pretty things.

When Siraj falls to his rule, one of the presents he gives her is a box of something small and brown and square and _sweet. _It had been a little gift from the rebel king of Siraj. Something called _chocolate. _It was rather valuable, and a great delicacy. The king had been rather reluctant to part with it, but, as Ozorne put it, "You face death by poison tomorrow. Wouldn't you like to give your Empress a present, before your…passing?"

Kalasin knows nothing of that, and enjoys her chocolate, laughing over how sweet and delicious it is, and he is slightly ashamed at how content her smiles make him.

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Thanks to Celuna Cirrus, music nerd, Strapless, and Cesy for reviewing. -hugs- You guys win at life!

And music nerd--you _seriously _need to get an account here, so that I can respond to your reviews and read any fics you've written!


	4. Different

**04: Different**

There are countless stories about all of his conquests, his murders, and the atrocities he's committed against his people and against his enemies. She is all of fourteen and a half, but she has _had _to have heard about some of the things he's done.

He mentions it once, in passing, and she gives him a strange look. "Yes, but…"

The emperor mage stares at her with those searching amber eyes, and Kalasin can't help but feel flustered. "Well?"

She sighs, frustrated, and wishes that he didn't insist on bringing up such difficult topics all the time. "You've always been nice to me," she mutters. "No matter what other horrible things you've done, you've always treated me well."

She slides out of the armchair and walks away, high-heeled shoes tapping out an uncertain pattern on the marble floor, and Ozorne stares after her, not knowing what to think.

That night, they stay on their separate sides of the bed, huddled into their own space, and are completely silent.

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Huge amounts of thanks to Pink Squishy Llama, music nerd, funnybunny, Alone In The Desert, Confusedknight, Angranse, Celuna Cirrus, Abiona Marchand, firedraike08, UnSerious Sirius, Bibliophilist, and k4writer02 for reviewing. Your comments make my day! –hugs-

And extra thanks to everyone who's commented on Ozorne. Writing him is really hard, since, well…he's Ozorne. The feedback on him is appreciated, because keeping him in character _and _showing his softer side are both important.


	5. Reconcile

**05: Resignation**

They reconcile after a while, and it's Kalasin who makes the peace offering. She walks into his study unannounced—and he almost rakes her across the coals because she _knows_ that she's not supposed to be in here—but then he sees the chocolate she holds in her hands, and the pleading look in her eyes, and he can't help but forgive her.

Another gift that Ozorne brought for her was a dress, scarlet with gold and silver embroidery. Kalasin secretly thinks it a bit too gaudy for her tastes, but she wears it to the party that night, just to please him. They have just made up, after all, and the look in his eyes when he sees her is almost worth the discomfort of wearing the heavy dress.

That night, she is shown off to all of the visiting dignitaries, and they marvel over how exquisite and beautiful she is. Kalasin cannot help but feel like a brand-new, pretty doll, displayed with great pride.

Much later, as she drifts off to sleep with his hand touching her waist ever-so-lightly and a little possessively, Kalasin realizes that it is nothing extremely abnormal. After all, Ozorne has always told her that she is a very, _very_ pretty girl, and she knows that people like to show off pretty things, just to show the world that it is _theirs. _

Kalasin tells herself to get used to it.

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Thank you to everybody who's reviewed! And, do not fear, longer imperialship drabbles are coming soon.


	6. Grown

**06: Grown**

Her fifteenth birthday comes and goes with much fanfare, and Ozorne notices some changes in her.

She gets a little taller, and her figure matures. Affairs with little girls are not to his tastes, he tells himself, and determines not to see her as the rest of the men of the Court are beginning to, all sideways glances and mumbled compliments.

Her eyes are not as innocent as they used to be, but he can hardly blame her, what with all the young males of the University panting over her and fighting over the right to give her a chair or a glass of lemonade. The attention hasn't turned her head, not really, and she treats them all the way she had before—as a patient elder sister or mentor to a particularly spirited bunch of children.

Kalasin enters her fifth year at the Imperial University that summer, and begins to plague him with odd questions and help on coursework. She trails after him like a puppy, demanding attention, and he thinks ruefully that she had been _much _lower-maintenance before this.

One thing that comes with the increased age is more social awareness, and Kalasin begins to notice things at school and at court that make her eyebrows knit in thought. Couples kiss. A lot. She and Ozorne are a couple. But they don't kiss.

The issue of kissing keeps coming up in her thoughts. Kalasin wonders why Ozorne won't kiss her.

One night, she kisses _him, _right on the lips. He gives her a very strange look, and tells her not to do that. The memory of that night makes her worry. She asks him about it later, and he sighs deeply and tells her that there are some things that aren't supposed to be done between two people, until one of the people is of a certain age.

Kalasin frowns and says that she doesn't understand, because there are seventh-years kissing fifth-years all the time.

Ozorne tells her that she will understand some day, and until then, tells her that she has to wear a proper nightgown to bed, and not to walk around their rooms in a shift anymore.

Kalasin _still _doesn't understand, but she agrees. Later that night, she notices that despite her half-sleeved floor-length nightgown, Ozorne doesn't hold her close with his arm around her waist. The empress sighs, and thinks that if this is what it means to be grown up, she would rather stay a little girl forever.

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Thanks to everyone who's reviewed!


	7. Puppy

**07: Puppy**

Ozorne found Kalasin a strange gift, once, on a war campaign. It was a puppy, picking its way through the shattered glass and marble left of Siraj's capital palace. He had been owned by the rebel king's only child, his seven-year-old daughter—dead two days, by a poisoned dagger, which had found its mark in the little girl's heart. The princess's crumpled body was flung in a pile with the countless others dead, and had been incinerated.

The little dog had begun to howl, and that was when Ozorne had noticed it. It was covered in mud and his princess's blood, and cringed behind the body of a fallen horse.

Something about the puppy had fascinated Ozorne, and he beckoned it forward with a scrap of meat, and the ravenous dog had devoured it, before proceeding to lick the emperor from fingertips to hand. Ozorne winced, but picked it up nevertheless, examining it. It would be a beautiful animal once cleaned up, all shiny and golden, with big brown eyes. Kalasin would like it, he realized, and it would be a suitable companion for her.

When he presented the puppy to her, she squealed and scooped it up in her arms, covering its small furry body with kisses. The puppy gave a little bark of pleasure and began to lick her all over, and Ozorne couldn't help but feel amused at the way Kalasin cradled it to her chest, rocking it back and forth.

"Thank you," she murmured later, hugging him around the shoulders. She had to stand on the window seat to do so, and he patted the small of her back awkwardly. "This is my _favorite _present,"—she pressed her lips into his long reddish-brown hair affectionately—"but I like everything you've bought me," Kalasin added hastily.

A little uncomfortable with her exuberant displays of affection, but flattered nevertheless, he lifted her back down. After she had left to get ready for dinner, he noted that she had never given him such an enthusiastic thank-you before, not even for the chocolate.

The puppy wandered into the room, paws uncomfortable on the thick carpet. It wagged its tail at Ozorne and pointed its nose to his face. As he lifted the dog, it licked his nose gratefully. It was almost hard to believe that such a tiny creature could give his Kalasin more joy than the finest jewelry in all of Carthak. "You'll be kind to her, won't you?" Ozorne asked the puppy sweetly. "Let her coddle you, and fulfill all of her whims. Let her braid your fur if she wishes. Do not disappoint her."

The puppy looked back at Ozorne solemnly and ducked its head, feeling the weight of the imperial order. Dropping the dog, Ozorne watched dispassionately as it fled the room in search of its new human owner.

He heard Kalasin coo a greeting to the puppy in her dressing room, and smiled a little bit smugly. Every little girl liked a new toy once in a while, and a contented girl was a happy girl, and happy girls were peaceful, and rebels had no interest in rallying around a peaceful, contented figurehead.

Pleased with his flawless logic, Ozorne headed for his study, and the extensive maps within. Today was Kalasin's history lesson night, and it would take much more than the forces of a new puppy to disrupt _that_ routine.

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Ozorne is so _weird, _damn him.


	8. Sickness

**08: Sickness**

Ozorne generally avoids being around sickness of any sort—it fills him with distaste, and just a little bit of fear.

When his birds fall ill, he cradles their small, brightly colored bodies in his hands tenderly, feeling them shake. The way they look up at him with their bright eyes dulled by sickness _hurts, _because he has always tried so hard to keep them in perfect conditions, and the knowledge that he has failed his precious pets is enough to make him lash out at the slightest provocation for days.

Kalasin has never shown even a glimmer of sickness before. She is a very healthy girl, and her strong Gift keeps her safe from any disease. But at dinner the evening after his return to the palace, the new cooks serve fresh dishes from Yamut. Ozorne eyes the plates of food suspiciously and doesn't touch them, for he has never been fond of foods from the conquered lands.

She doesn't understand, though, and tries the freshwater shrimp and cold noodle salad with watercress, and seems to enjoy it well enough. "I'm perfectly all right," she assures him, over a glass of wine, which she seems to enjoy, now that she is old enough to drink it.

Within the next two days, she becomes violently ill, and almost everything that he remembers of his lively Kalasin is gone. Her body is wracked with painful shivers, her face pale, skin cool to the touch, and pulse faint.

Ozorne feels out of place in the dim sickroom, and he tries to calm himself by pulling the blankets up to her chin and rubbing her shoulders soothingly as his sister Fazia warms Kalasin's body with her Gift.Kalasin turns to her side, seeking his gaze. Awkwardly, the Emperor Mage takes her hand in his own, pressing it between his.

Dazed,she looks up at him. "Papa?"

His eyes widen momentarily, and then narrow, and as he tries to back away, she clutches at him desperately. "Don't go, Papa, please, stay with me."

Fazia stiffens and looks up from tending to the girl's potion, and she feels a shiver of trepidation as she sees the look in his eyes. "Ozorne, _please_—"

Wordlessly, he shakes Kalasin's hand off and strides out of the room. "Mama…?" Kalasin calls, sounding apprehensive.

Fazia smoothes a lock of her hair back from her forehead and kisses it sympathetically. "Take care of her," she snaps at the rest of the healers in the room. "Keep her warm and give her the potion. I'll be back in a moment."

She finds Ozorne in the aviary, as always, caressing the head of a bright red finch, facing away from her. He shows no sign of moving to stop her as she approaches him apprehensively. "Ozorne?"

No reply.

Fazia takes that as permission, and stands before him, watching as he croons to the bird. "Ozorne, she didn't mean it."

"Of course she didn't," he deigns to reply, giving the bird a little seed and patting its head gently. His other hand is on the armrest, and she can see how his fingers clench at the material, slowly burning it away.

"She's very sick," the princess goes on, feeling a little desperate. It had been a long time since she had seen him so angry. "And she's fifteen, Ozorne, fifteen. Of course she misses her mother and father."

One of the emperor's fingers begins to tap out a warning pattern on the gold velvet of the sofa.

She plunges on, not caring if she's being stupid. "She hasn't seen them in _so _long. Do you expect a child to suffer and not long for the presence of her mother or father? Don't you think she misses having her father touch her hair and tell her that everything is going to be all right? Her mother's embrace?"

She is grasping at straws now, and knows that it is hopeless, because Ozorne had never experienced a mother's embrace or a father's loving reassurances.

"When she recovers,"—Fazia notices Ozorne shift a little in the sofa, and he dismisses the bird and gives her a cool gaze and his full attention—"could you please just…not remind her of this? Not hold it against her?"

He considers it for a few long moments, and Fazia is reminded strongly of the times when she was a young girl, imploring him not to tell her parents that she had failed yet another practical applications exam at the University. "…I suppose."

The princess exhales again, a breath she didn't realize she had been holding. It would be _very _good for Kalasin, very good indeed, if Ozorne never had a cause to be displeased with her.

She excuses herself and slips out of the aviary, leaving the Emperor Mage sitting alone, his thoughts haunted by a sick, delirious girl. Kalasin would have to learn that her parents were no longer part of her life, of course. They had no place here.

Kalasin did not belong to _them, _anymore. She was his, and it was time she learned who would _really_ take care of her.

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-sigh- No. Ozorne is not going to take Kally to his cavern of underage love and make passionate intimacy to her. Minds out of the gutter, please. –grin-


	9. Convalescence

**09: Convalescence **

Kalasin recovers slowly but surely, and Ozorne is glad. He forgives her for her earlier lapse—after all, she is only a girl, and a bit of a foolish one at that, sometimes. He never says that to her, because he knows that she has her kind of cleverness, deep down, and he does not want to hurt her feelings.

A few days later, they see each other again, and when Kalasin reaches out to him weakly and says his name, he strokes her hair and is glad that she is learning. The Emperor holds her very gently, feeling how thin she is under her shift. She almost reminds him of a dove he had found, once, soft and warm, strong yet fragile. Kalasin sighs, fisting one hand in the rich material of his tunic.

The other healers leave the room quietly, some trying not to stare at the way he cradles her, and they are alone. Ozorne is almost glad that she has no interest in speaking, but that worries him at the same time, for she is rarely ever quiet. The soft drag of her breathing is still laborious, and he touches the top of her hair. "I'm glad you're all right, Kalasin."

The empress breathes in, inhaling his scent. The familiar smells of rich food and wine are much fainter than usual, and the ash of his Gift and the scent of his birds linger strongly on his skin and clothing. "So am I." They are silent for another few minutes, and a vague, irrational worry hits Kalasin. "How many classes have I missed? How much _coursework?" _

"You're being silly," he tells her calmly. Ozorne shrugs slightly, nudging her up so that her head is resting against his collarbone. He is at a loss for words again, although she seems comfortable.

At that moment, Kalasin is glad he is here. She's been scared, these past few days, frightened. There were times when she would close her eyes and see her parents before her, and then a dead Stormwing, falling through the gray sky with an arrow through his neck. She found the sight of the dead Stormwing distressing, for reasons that she couldn't name. She would reach out for it, and feel as if something very precious to her was slipping through her fingers, lost forever.

She is easy enough to read so that he can easily decipher her small frown. "Bad dream?"

"Lots of them." Kalasin is tired; the talking exhausts her. She wants to close her eyes and rest, but is afraid that she will dream if she sleeps. "Would you, um, would you please enchant me to sleep?" The request makes her blush a little—her father used to enchant her to sleep, when she was a little girl. She knows that at her age, she shouldn't need magical butterflies to lull her to sleep, and asking always makes her feel a little stupid.

Ozorne doesn't say anything, though—he never does—and only presses her close to his side. The sparkling emerald butterflies flit in front of her, glowing green. They make Kalasin want to reach out and touch them, but her limbs feel heavy. She sighs again, and tries to thank him. He gives her a puzzled look, and as she tucks her head into the crook of his arm and closes her eyes, she resolves to thank him when she wakes up.

After a little while of being used as a cushion, he deposits her on the pillows and pulls the blankets up to her chin. She gives a mumbling noise in her sleep and turns to the side. Ozorne reminds himself to come back before she wakes, and heads for his library.

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	10. Sordid

**10: Sordid**

The scandal descends on the Imperial University like a dark cloud, bringing with it words that Kalasin doesn't quite understand.

_Statutory rape, pedophilia, underage, position of power, seduction, defiled, dishonorable, illicit…_

The whispers swirl around the University, and she and her friends hear them and gasp, wide-eyed, saying that no, it _can't _be true, the upper years don't know what they're talking about, but they beg the older students for more information, nevertheless.

By the end of the week, everybody knows the story of the sixth-year girl and the Astronomy professor. Kalasin is shocked. It's so strange and surprising and disturbing, somehow. How could this have happened? The professor had always seemed so normal before, and now everybody was saying that he and Radanae had been…having an affair. Kally doesn't know all the details, and when she asks, her seventh-year potions partner says grimly that she doesn't _want _to know all the details.

The University breaks for the end of the quarter earlier than normal, and a slightly shaken Kalasin returns to the palace. She had never thought that she'd consider Court a peaceful, happy place, but compared to what school's been like, it seems like the most harmonious place in the world.

Ozorne has heard about what happened at the University, everyone has, and when he sees Kally again, he inquires about whether she's quite all right. She says she is, and manages to hold her silence for two days.

The curiosity gets to be too much, though, and she finds that she _has _to ask him. He knows more about the world than she does, after all, and she doubts that Fazia would answer questions of this sort.

"Why would he do it?" Kalasin asks plaintively, over dinner that night. "He has a wife and three children, and a powerful holding. Why would he…do what he did…with Radanae?"

Ozorne puts his wineglass down, and tries to word his reply as carefully as possible. "Some men…have strange preferences, Kalasin. It's like an illness. They can't control it, as dishonorable as it is. They don't have the discipline to keep their—desires—under control."

Kalasin abandons her strawberry, and props her head up thoughtfully. "He betrayed his wife. Ajay said that they had been married for years and years, and that they loved each other dearly. If he loved her so much, how could he do that to her?"

"Some people's minds work in strange ways. If they are presented with a temptation, they give in to it." Ozorne is beginning to feel uncomfortable discussing this with her. She is fifteen, yes, but he doesn't want her to know too much about the evils of the world yet.

She thinks about it, and shivers involuntarily. "Do you know what everybody's saying he did to her? What they did to each other, I suppose?"

"Yes." The Emperor Mage sees that she is pale, and nudges the strawberry back toward her side of the dessert plate. "Eat. And don't think about it. You don't need those kind of things weighing on your mind."

Kalasin bites into the strawberry, and a small rivulet of red juice drips onto her fingers. She licks it off, savoring how very sweet it is. "All right. But…um…" she nibbles on the end of the strawberry hesitantly.

"Yes?" Ozorne asks, trying to hold back a sigh. He can't disillusion her more than what's already been said this evening, in any case.

"I thought grown men were supposed to prefer grown women," she says in a rush, blushing. "Not sixteen-year-olds."

He had been expecting a typical product of Kalasin's inquisitive mind, but not _that. _Ozorne is silent for a few moments, hoping that she'll change her mind and ask a different question, but she leans into him with an expectant look. He smoothes a lock of her hair behind her ear. "In an ideal world, that would be true," he tells her softly, and slips an arm around her slender shoulders for the luxury of a small hug.

"But?"

"But some men are…different, and no matter how hard they try to change themselves, they can't."

"That's sad," Kalasin whispers.

Ozorne kisses the top of her head. "I know."

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	11. Victory

**11: Victory**

Kalasin is fifteen and a half when Carthak defeats the Copper Isles. She sits at Ozorne's side when the captivesare put on display. They are tattered and bruised and bleeding from the battles and from being tortured on their way here. She knows that they are the enemy, but seeing the once-proud noblemen being forced to kneel in submission to the man who had ordered the conquer of their beloved country is hard, and she cannot summon feelings of joy at the victory.

Later, Kalasin asks Ozorne what he plans to do with them. "Will they be exiled? Or…thrown in prison for a while?"

Ozorne chuckles humorlessly. "Hardly. They will be disposed of, of course."

"All…all of them?"

He sighs. "They had the option to surrender at the beginning of the invasion. They chose not to, and they are now paying the price."

Kalasin wants to protest, but she bites it back.

Ozorne sees the look in her eyes. "You'll understand someday."

He leaves Kalasin alone with her thoughts, and she feels her brow furrow. She remembers the haunted look in the prisoners' eyes, and shivers, despite herself. If that is what it means to be as powerful as he is, Kalasin is glad that she won't have to live with those kinds of decisions.

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	12. White And Red

Carthaki troops are slaughtered at the Scanran/Gallan border that winter, and numerous reports are sent to Ozorne concerning the matter. He leaves one out on a desk in his study one evening, and Kalasin happens upon it on her search for an atlas.

She knows that she probably shouldn't, but curiosity compels her to pick the stained parchment up and read it.

There are horrible things in the letter, and Kalasin almost can't believe that all of this is happening to their army, their _people, _while things are continuing as normal in the palace. The general writes about snow falling on dismembered corpses and blood staining white with red.

When Ozorne finds Kalasin, she is sitting on his armchair with the letter open in front of her, staring at it numbly. He almost rakes her across the coals for this—she wouldn't have seen it if she hadn't been poking around his study in the first place, but then he notices that her tears have added to the bloodstains on the parchment, and he can't do anything about it, except for wrapping his arms around her gently, and letting her rest against him, sniffling.

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	13. Apples

**13: Apples**

Kalasin goes into the kitchens regularly and harvests armfuls of apples—sweet, juicy, plump, and red, which she eats constantly. While doing coursework, while talking to her husband, while reading, while sitting on the window seat and staring into space, thinking about nothing in particular.

Her addiction bemuses Ozorne. The apples don't look like anything special, and yet they have quickly become her favorite food. He is startled out of his thoughts by a loud crunch, and he looks over his book at Kalasin. She smiles at him sheepishly, a sizable chunk taken out of her apple, and quite a bit of the fruit in her mouth. In response to the look on his face, she tries not to giggle and wipes away the juice that has splashed on her chin. "Sorry."

"No need to apologize," he says automatically, and they fall silent again, although Kalasin can tell he is distracted. At last, he clears his throat. "Kalasin."

"Mmm?"

He nods toward her hand. "May I…"

For a moment she doesn't understand, but when it clicks, she grins in triumph, and holds the apple right in front of his mouth. "Here!"

Ozorne grips her wrist gently and bites into the other side of the apple. She watches his expression intently as he chews. It remains neutral, until the temptation to jump on him and demand happiness increases to an almost unbearable level. Finally, he rewards her with a small smile. "It's pleasant."

Kalasin laughs and kisses him on the cheek, and Ozorne wonders at how his appreciation of a fruit could make her so happy.

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A purecute moment. I couldn't resist. I have to start getting to the more adult issues soon, since Kally is going to turn sixteen and all, so I thought that I could indulge myself in that little bit of unadultered fluff.


	14. Dreamer

**14: **Dreamer

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Kalasin is prone to dreams of all sorts. Vivid dreams at night, half-awake half-asleep dreams right before her maid wakes her up in the morning, and perhaps the most inconvenient type of dream whatsoever: the daydream.

Sometimes, gazing out of the third-story window of her physics class at the University, Kalasin looks at the clouds and at the seagulls that wheel and dip around near the sea, and wonders what it would be like to fly away.

There are numerous ponds in the Imperial Gardens, and she sits at their banks, feeling the soft green grass tickle her bare feet and watching the sun ripple off the blue waters. She remembers the tales that her Aunt Cythera used to tell her, and thinks about what she could do as a mermaid, swimming through the warm water and sunning on rocks all day, without a care in the world.

At the end of the day, though, she doesn't mind that she is only an almost-sixteen year old girl. Life is entertaining enough, she supposes, without being a bird or a mermaid or a giraffe.

"Thinking deep thoughts?" Ozorne asks, startling her out of her thoughts.

Kalasin smiles at him. "Not really. Just the average run-of-the mill teenage school things."

"I don't miss those days," he tells her wryly. "I got tired of dreaming of the impossible very soon."

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	15. Reluctant

**15: Reluctant**

**-**

Kalasin is going to be sixteen in summer, and Ozorne decides that it's time for her first official Council meeting.

At first she balks to the point of developing a sudden and very painful headache that morning, but after almost two years, the Emperor Mage can spot a fake illness at the first moan and dramatically heart-wrenching refusal to leave bed.

"I'm on to you," he tells her darkly.

Kalasin puts a hand on her forehead and her eyelashes flutter in exhaustion. "Please don't make me do this. I'm so very…tired…"

Sitting down beside her, Ozorne decides that this must be dealt with before her headache escalates into a violent stomach flu. "Kalasin, don't be ridiculous."

She burrows her head into the pillow in distress.

"You _will _come today, even if you have to be carried there by the slaves." He doesn't usually pull the slave card on her; he knows she is uncomfortable with that particular aspect of life in Carthak, but this is a drastic situation.

Kalasin decides that it is useless, and sits up; hugging her knees to her chest, before giving him a despairing yet wrathful glare.

Ozorne sighs, wondering when she became so stubborn. "I don't see why you're so upset by this. You will make a good queen, with time and practice."

Kalasin has known him long enough to know that saying that she doesn't _want _to be a queen is unacceptable. She gets out of bed, resigned, and smoothes the wrinkles out of her dress. "Fine. I'll go."

Catching sight of the little glimmer of resentment in her eyes, Ozorne reaches out, gently pulling her into his lap. Not knowing whether to protest for the sake of her morale or not, Kalasin finally decides to perch there lightly, but doesn't snuggle close or wrap her arms around his neck as always, just to let him know that she is still unhappy about it.

He caresses her cheek. "When you realize that this isn't as bad as you are making it out to be, I think I'm going to laugh." There is only one way for Kalasin to respond to such utter foolishness, and she does so by pulling a face, startling a chuckle out of him. "Very mature," he teases affectionately.

For a moment, Kalasin thinks she has won, but then he stands, pulling her to her feet. "Get ready."

Kalasin pouts and sulks all the way to her dressing room, but leaves Ozorne feeling quite satisfied. It is time for her to learn how to be a proper Empress, and he thinks that will be good for her.

After all, Kalasin can'tremain a carefree little girl forever, no matter how much that little part of him secretly wants her to.

-

Sigh. Ozorne, Ozorne, you poor conflicted little thing, you.


	16. Flowers In The Ashes

Ten little snapshots, in the style of my other fic, Road Less Traveled. They're supposed to show the beginnings of the changes in Ozorne and Kally's relationship...so...rating gets a teensy little bit higher for these, but not much.

-

_sixteen: flowers in the ashes_

_-_

**01:Lonely**

At sixteen, Kalasin doesn't know much about sex that isn't University lore, except that people seem to enjoy it greatly. She imagines that it must take away loneliness; having someone to be that close to. There are times when her curiosity gets to be too much, when she wonders if Ozorne ever gets lonely, if he ever wants to do that. With her.

The concept intrigues her, but for now all she can do is wait, and that frustrates her even more than the loneliness.

**02: Teacher**

Ozorne thinks that _he _should be the one teaching her—he is older and more experienced, for all that he is still careful about how he touches her. Kalasin gets impatient after a while of being his student, and seems to think that she can take things into her own hands, standing on the tips of her toes to kiss him, and moving his head this way or that to suit her convenience. Ozorne lets her amuse herself as she wishes, wrapping a secure arm around her to make sure that she won't overbalance and fall, and, for a while, he is actually content with being _her_ student.

**03: Laughter**

Sometimes Ozorne finds touching her disconcerting—after all, if he does so much as accidentally brush his hands against her ribs, she pulls away from him, and collapses in laughter.

**04: Porcelain **

Kalasin has the body of a doll, but takes great pains to assure him that she is most certainly _not _fragile.

**05: Temptation**

Ozorne hates it that she had to grow up; hates it that he can't look at her in a shift the same way; hates the way that, when she curls up on the sofa after her bath, reading, his eyes find themselves drawn to the slit in her silken robe, no matter how hard he tries to focus on something else.

**06: Auburn**

She walks in on Ozorne while he is having his hair tended to at night. It is a little past his shoulders now, all the gilded paints, beads, and braids unraveled and washed away. It is startling how very auburn it is, how silky, and it is all she can do to keep walking, and not reach out to run her fingers through it.

**07: Coquette**

Kalasin seems to have mastered the art of flirting at the University, something that Ozorne only realizes after she coaxes a visit to Radzyn Keep that summer out of him. He blinks, looking at her as she fairly skips away, in a swish of perfume and rose-painted nails, and sighs over the fact that she has developed yet another skill he must develop immunity to—and soon.

**08: Sunset**

Kalasin watches the sunset every evening; Ozorne doesn't bother with such frivolous things. From the window in his study, he can see her from the balcony. The red flushes her cheeks crimson, and tints of deep peach and gold dance against her hair, and he imagines that the ocean reflects in her eyes.

**09: Drink**

The first time Kalasin gets drunk, she calls Ozorne her kitten, and he doesn't speak to her for two days.

**10: Sleep**

She looks more at peace when she's asleep than she does during the day, and sometimes Ozorne longs to touch her, but he always stifles the temptation, and tells himself to wait until she will understand.

-


	17. Temptation

_seventeen: temptation_

_-_

Ozorne doesn't know when he started to become tempted by more than fine things or magical artifacts, and he isn't sure whether he likesit or not.

It starts as a comfortable fizz in his stomach, when she smiles or laughs, and it escalates slowly, almost unnoticeably, to the point where he watches her reading, eating, sleeping, with a twisting ache inside him.

It makes him uncomfortable—he doesn't want her to know, and yet, he can't tell her that she isn't allowed to hug him anymore (wrap her arms around his neck, nestle against him when she's trying to get to sleep, kiss him goodnight), without arousing her curiosity, and that is one thing he does _not _want to do.

Ozorne wonders, once, if she knows how he feels, but then shrugs off the possibility. It would disturb her, put walls between them, and so far, things are as normal as they always have been.

A little voice in his head tells him that their relationship has hardly ever been _normal, _and Ozorne quite determinedly ignores it.

It frustrates him, more than anything else. He is supposed to be above this. Above _lusting_ after a sixteen-year-old girl.

Ozorne decides to go South this winter. The rebels have to be taught a lesson, and a painful one, at that, and he needs some time away from Kalasin, as well.

She is dismayed when she finds out that he's leaving, even though, after her empress lessons, she does an admirable job of taking care of the palace when he's gone.

"Do you have to go?" she asks him plaintively, the night before he has to leave. "Couldn't somebody else?"

Ozorne looks over at her, perched on his study desk. "No, and get off the desk."

Kalasin makes a face before sliding down, sending a battle plan fluttering to the floor with her. "Sorry." She kneels to pick it up, and he takes it from her, before helping her to her feet.

"I've left before," he tells her as they walk to their bedroom. "I'll be back in a few weeks, in any case."

Kalasin mutters something about liars and emperors who stay and fight for longer than they're supposed to under her breath.

"Stop that."

More muttering, about emperors and denial, this time.

Sighing deeply, he turns around and, cupping her elbows, pulls her close to him. "I'll be back before Midwinter. I _promise," _he adds, seeing the doubt in her eyes.

Kalasin considers it, leaning closer. He catches a whiff of her lightly scented hair and skin—apple butter, her favorite. "I believe you," she whispers. Meeting his gaze, she reaches up tentatively and places her small hand on his cheek. Ozorne hadn't expected that, of all things, and it takes all of his self-control not to flinch back. "I hate it when you go. I _miss _you."

Without giving him a moment to even respond, Kalasin stands on her tiptoes and kisses him, hard. Taken by surprise, his senses assaulted by the sight, the sound, the _feel _of her, Ozorne's first instinct is to wrap one arm around her waist.

It is shocking; pleasurable—everything he's imagined it would be. A soft sound (almost like a contented purr, he thinks) escapes Kalasin's throat as he keeps holding her, kissing her, letting his many-ringed fingers tangle in her soft, unbound hair.

Part of Ozorne tells him that he should stop, _now,_ but that is before she presses closer against him, her arms wrapping around his shoulders, as he holds her tighter.

It's only the fact that he is pressed against the sharp edge of the bookshelf that causes him to pull away, finally, panting, overwhelmed. If anything, Kalasin looks as shocked as he feels. Her hair is in disarray, her cheeks flushed, and her lips slightly swollen. She speaks for both of them as she steps away from him, fingers pressed to her throbbing lips. "Oh, gods…"

Ozorne listens for trepidation in her voice, regret, disgust, and hears none. "You kissed me back," Kalasin tells him, eyes wide.

By now he's recovered, if only a little bit. "You notice this now?" he shoots back, looking at the girl as she tries to smooth her hair back into place.

Kalasin meets his gaze as levelly as she can. "Yes. No. I…" her lip suddenly trembles, and she tries to square her shoulders into some semblance of defiance.

Wondering what he's _done _to her, Ozorne holds his arms out, not sure what else to do. She wraps herself back in his embrace, still looking a little confused. "It's not you," Kalasin says, into his tunic, her voice muffled. "I don't get kissed like that every day."

He rubs her back soothingly, deciding to take it as a compliment. "I should hope not."

Kalasin looks back up at him, apparently unsure whether to smile or not.

Ozorne brushes his hand against her cheek lightly. "Maybe some rest would be best for both of us."

They walk to bed, and thankfully, before there are any awkward moments, she gets in. Out of habit, he pulls the covers up to her chin. "Good night," he says softly, and before he can straighten properly, Kalasin kisses the only part of him she can reach, his cheek, and smiles a shy goodnight, before nestling under the covers.

It is midnight before Ozorne even begins to feel drowsy. He watches her while she sleeps, her breathing deep and even, peaceful. The echo of her hand on his face remains, haunting him until he finally closes his eyes, falling into a troubled sleep.

-


	18. Midwinter

_eighteen: midwinter_

_-_

Ozorne returns when he promised he would, and Kalasin is glad. He brings her chocolate, and her favorites, coveted bright new scarves and veils in vibrant shades of red, green, blue, orange, and gold. She can tell that they hurt his eyes, but he lies quite convincingly as he tells her that they look beautiful.

Their puppy gets a new collar, inlaid with sapphires, which he adores, licking over and over again. After he realizes that the sapphires aren't the berries that his Kally gives him as a treat, he takes to chewing on the black leather. Kalasin gives Ozorne a querulous look, and he smiles at her wryly. "Chew-proof."

"How sweet of you."

It is only fitting that she give him her Midwinter presents, too, even though it is a day early. Kalasin hates finding gifts for him; their tastes are so very different, and he seems to have everything in the world already—except for peace in his country. _Their _country, as she is beginning to think of it, now. Kalasin regrets that she can't give him that.

She settles with books, as he loves those. Some are about birds, some about magic, and she thinks he likes the ones with birds better. The last part to her gift is an enthusiastic kiss that actually knocks him over onto the bed. Ozorne looks slightly displeased with himself, but responds, although it is quite a bit more gentle and reserved. Kalasin laughs at him. "I'm not a _doll._"

The Emperor Mage glowers at her, thinking it would be pointless to voice his concerns, about accidentally crushing her, or obstructing her breathing in some way, or forcing too much on her at once. She wouldn't understand. Later, as they get ready for dinner, he gives Kalasin a covert glance over his shoulder. She's examining her figure in the mirror critically, as she surveys the dress set out for her.

Personally, he thinks that she worries about her body too much—there are days when she hardly eats, and laces her corset too tight to be healthy, and there are other days when she wakes up convinced she looks skeletal, and then eats her way through huge amounts of food.

Ozorne wishes he could tell her that there's nothing wrong with her figure, and that her arms are not fat, but something holds him back, and he can only watch her in the mirror as she tries vainly to lace up her red and gold gown over a back that shows too much bone for him to be entirely comfortable with.

Kalasin notices, and, abandoning her dress over the back of the chair, walks up and hugs him playfully. "I can't do it without Mairi, and I don't suppose you're any good at lacing up dresses."

Absentmindedly, he runs his hands over her back and the thin straps of her shift that cover it. "Kalasin?"

"Mmm?"

He rethinks what he was going to say, and sighs to himself. "Nothing."

"Oh," she replies, stroking the front of his crimson silk tunic lightly. "Well…you're _so _very handsome."

Refusing to let his ego be stoked, he turns away from her, a little. "And you've grown up into a dreadful flirt."

"No, this time, I'm telling the truth!" she retorts, injured. "How could you not believe me?"

Before Ozorne can think of a proper comeback, one that wouldn't hurt her feelings too much, that is, Kalasin's maid walks into the dressing room. More than a little surprised to find her lady in the arms of the Emperor, at this time (and at her _age_, the mother in her wails), Mairi curtsies as low as she can, stammering apologies.

Ozorne steps back, disentangling himself from Kalasin, and exits quietly. The servants disturb him, although his wife seems to be comfortable enough with them. He hears her chatter away to the older woman, and exhales softly, waiting. After a while, she comes out to greet him, clad in her new finery.

Kalasin beams at him and preens, turning back and forth until he acknowledges her beauty with a small smile. "Lovely."

"Thank you," she replies, mollified, standing on her tiptoes to look into the ornate mirror as she secures the light, almost see-through veil over her hair and the bottom half of her face. Even after two years, she resents wearing it; he can see that in her eyes.

The veil makes her look older, a little like the princesses of the South, or the costumes the slave dancers wore to entertain. Ozorne decides not to mention that particular fact to her—he doesn't want to give her any ideas. But he gives her hand a light squeeze, nevertheless.

"Happy Midwinter," Kalasin whispers to him, before they enter the crowded dining hall. _I love you,_ part of her wants to add to the sentence. It would be auspicious, after all, but something holds her back.

To her surprise, before the herald announces them, he lifts his hand, and strokes her hair lightly. "Happy Midwinter to you, too, Kalasin."

Kalasin smiles up at him, and decides that she doesn't mind Carthaki Midwinter celebrations so much, after all.

-


	19. Departure

_nineteen: departure_

_(set one and a half years after the previous chapter) _

_-_

It's early morning when he leaves. It's November and chilly, and Kalasin would prefer to be asleep, in bed, curled up under the covers. But she's out here, nevertheless, even though it's foggy, gray, and looks like it's going to rain.

"Lovely day for a war campaign," she remarks casually, watching as Ozorne finishes readying his horse for travel.

"You're quite bitter today," the Emperor Mage remarks. He pats his mare on the head, before coming over to wrap his arm around Kalasin securely. "I don't see why. I'll be back in a few months, after all."

Kalasin shrugs. Maybe it's the weather, but she feels somewhat uneasy. "I suppose." Impetuously, she stands on the tips of her toes and hugs him close. "I'll miss you."

Ozorne kisses her warmly, caressing her back through her riding leathers, and she clings to him. "Don't worry," he assures her, after finally letting go. "I'll write."

"Keep safe," she says anxiously as he mounts his horse.

He rides toward the University after looking back at her once, and she manages a smile.

Kalasin stands out there in the cold for a while, before heading back inside with a sigh. The wind howls through the bare branches of the trees in the courtyard.

It promises to be a lonely winter.

--

The Imperial Palace is oddly empty this time of year, and Kalasin almost misses school. There isn't much to do, in the way of her duties as Empress, so she relaxes, reads, and worries. Tortall is at war with Scanra, now, and Roald and Liam have both been assigned to military forts on the border. Sometimes she goes into Ozorne's study, pulls out his books of war, and analyzes the letters that her siblings send to her.

Ozorne's letters contain more of the same. Sometimes she considers offering advice, but realizes that he probably doesn't need her for that.

When he writes to her in March, a week before he and the five companies are scheduled to return home, he tells her that things in the South have taken an unexpected turn, and that he doesn't know when they'll be back.

Kalasin reads the letter while she's curled up in his armchair. When she finishes, she sighs softly and sets it down. The dog that had been lying at her feet stands up and begins to lick her comfortingly, and the Empress slides down from the chair and wraps her arms around the dog, burying her head in his soft golden fur.

She's in a conference with a few of his military tacticians in late April. They tell her that things look bad. One of the companies has been entirely wiped out, and even they don't know when the rebellion will end. Kalasin goes to sleep feeling disheartened, and wishes that she could help, somehow.

Long months pass, and she doesn't hear from Ozorne again. Word is received that Fazia's husband, Gazanoi, was killed in one of the battles. Kalasin tries her best to comfort the family, but she's shaken as well—she had liked Gazanoi. He reminded her of Uncle Gary.

Finally, she receives news. After almost nine months, the confrontation between the rebels and the Imperial forces has ended in a deadlock. Three out of the five companies sent South are still alive, but there are many wounded. Nothing is said of Ozorne, and that worries her more than anything else. Kalasin stays awake that night, over paperwork and documents of state, and tries not to fret about him.

It's past Beltane, now. Kalasin hasn't heard from Ozorne since March. She's frustrated, and confused—she knows that he would write, if he were all right. She tries not to assume the worst, and reasons with herself, thinking that, if he had been injured, they would have heard about it at the capital long ago.

She sits on the balcony one warm evening, absorbed in a book. She's more at peace than she's been in a while. The fragrant incense and orbs of magical fire calm her frazzled nerves, and she inhales, relaxed.

A light breeze ghosts through her little corner, and her bookmark ribbon flutters away. Kalasin squeaks in dismay, and she kneels down to retrieve it.

Kalasin sits down again, sighing in contentment, and continues reading.

After a few minutes, she feels a cold shiver down her back. Cold sweat. At first she passes it off as nerves; after all, this _is _a horror play she's reading, and Kalasin suspects that something gruesome is going to happen to the main character very soon. She picks up her glass of icy water and takes a sip.

Behind her, there is a soft clicking sound, followed by the rasp of metal against metal. Kalasin shivers again, involuntarily, and turns around to face whatever it is, expecting an envoy from King Jokhun's flock of Stormwings. Rikash Moonsword, in particular, has been visiting her, sometimes with word of Ozorne, sometimes not.

Her eyes widen, and she gasps, suddenly feeling dizzy. Kalasin staggers back, dropping the glass she holds in her nerveless hands, and it shatters into a million little pieces. It takes her a few moments to recover, but she dashes forward and wraps her arms around the Stormwing on the balcony. She holds on tight, burying her face in his tangled amber hair. He flinches away, and she is suddenly acutely aware that his once-fine tunic is in rags, and stained with old blood.

"I'm sorry," she sobs. "So sorry."

Ozorne wishes he could hold her, tell her that everything will be all right, but he doesn't wish to lie to her. So he lets Kalasin cry. Feeling a little detached, he wonders that she doesn't mind the blood or the smell. His Stormwing body doesn't particularly like being held like this, but she's shaking and needs it.

It starts to rain lightly, after a while. Kalasin lets go slowly, but keeps her arm around him, as if he'll turn into something else or fly away if she doesn't protect him.

He doesn't want to talk and she isn't sure she's ready to hear it. They stay out on the balcony through the rain, in silence.

-


	20. Confluence

_twenty: confluence_

_(set six months after the previous chapter)_

_-_

At night, Ozorne looks out over the lights of the city, and entertains himself with memories. Most of them are of Kalasin—holding her, kissing her; evenings in the study trying to work, and then letting himself be distracted by her.

When it gets to be too much, he flies away, circling the Inland Sea in the dark, letting the bracing sea air divert his attention away from his former wife, and from his former throne.

Kalasin lives in a small palace on the coast, now, technically a ward of _Emperor _Kaddar (the thought of his nephew is bitter in his mind), but really, a very comfortable prisoner. Even though Ozorne spends his time in hiding, with King Jokhun's Stormwings, he knows that Kaddar has been rumored to ask for Kalasin's hand in marriage.

Ozorne finds himself in a tree near Kalasin's balcony. She's fallen asleep in her armchair again; within a few moments, two maids scurry out, wake her up, and try to lead her inside. From the cover of darkness, he sees her look around the surrounding area, into the trees and the black sky. The former Empress sees nothing, and, lowering her head, enters her room. The balcony door closes with a firm snap.

The Stormwing stays there for a few moments, before fluttering away, toward the north.

--

Kalasin lies facedown on the bed, inhaling the still-unfamiliar scent of the covers. It's stiff, new silk—sapphire blue with silver embroidery. The palace itself is new, and has a somewhat unlived-in feeling. Kaddar had just finished building it when he decided that it would be her home until things got sorted out.

She wonders if it's mere coincidence that her room has been done in her favorite colors, patterns, and designs.

Flopping over on her back, she sighs at the ceiling. _This isn't your wedding gift to me, Kaddar, no matter how much you want it to be. _

The memory of his proposal still haunts her—Kalasin wonders if she's being unreasonable; after all, she's known him since she came here. Four years ago, now? He had reminded her of Roald more than anyone else. They had been close, as friends.

Politically, she knows that marrying Kaddar is the best way to secure her future. She will have a stable life as the wife of a man she already knows to be kind, who will treat her well. She will have the chance to rebuild Carthak. She will be Empress again, she'd have her palace back, and she would look forward to many long, safe years.

And yet, she knows with equal certainty that she can never do it.

Kalasin lifts her hand, scrubs at her eyes with it. "I miss you," she says to the empty room. "Please come back."

Her voice sounds pathetic to even her own ears, and she turns and buries her head in the pillows.

Kalasin manages ten minutes of silence, before finally crying herself to sleep.

--

She doesn't bother sleeping tonight. Last night, there had been dreams of dead Stormwings again. She had woken up, hugged herself for a while, and remembered that she had this dream before. The first time was when she was fifteen and barely recovering from a serious illness, brought about by poisoned food. It had recurred every now and then, but recurring dreams were common, for her.

Kalasin rolls over and punches her pillow. Abandoned books are scattered all over the bed.

After a few minutes of sitting, disheartened, she slides out of bed and quietly walks across to the sliding balcony door, careful not to wake her maids.

It is surprisingly chilly outside, not surprising for a late November night. Kalasin pulls her robe a bit tighter over her plain cotton shift, and sits down in her armchair with a sigh. From here, she can see the sea, which is calm tonight. Blue-black waves break on the even white sand, and the foam shines silver under the moon.

Remembering the blanket she keeps under the armchair, she reaches under and wraps it around herself. The heavy weave is comfortingly warm, and Kalasin wonders detachedly if Ozorne is too cold outside. She knows that King Jokhun's flock is in the north, their home grounds, and it will be even colder there.

She rests her head on the back of the chair and closes her eyes, waiting, listening…

"You shouldn't be outside," a voice says gently, much later. It is accompanied by the soft click of metal on metal. "There's a storm on the horizon."

Kalasin reaches up and rubs her eyes blearily. Ozorne is perched on the balcony railing, regarding her with worried eyes. "You haven't visited in a while," she says, her voice half a reproach. "I was beginning to think you've forgotten me."

"Don't say that," he tells her seriously.

"…Sorry."

The tumult of questions he wants to ask her finally comes out in a somewhat awkward, "how are you?"

Kalasin arches an eyebrow, and a small giggle escapes her.

"I apologize, that was a stupid question," he counters, before sobering again. "I've missed you."

Kalasin blinks; usually, she's the one who says that to him. "Me too." She rises, before wrapping her arms around him, careful of the razor edges of his wings. Ozorne blinks down at her, and realizes that he misses his arms.

"You haven't been sleeping well, have you?"

"How do you know?" she asks, releasing him.

Ozorne lifts one wing in a slight shrug. "I've known you for a while. As a longtime insomniac myself, I can tell when somebody else is exhibiting the signs."

"Can you blame me?" she retorts, trying to hide her tiredness from his sharp eyes. They are silent for a few moments. "…You've heard about Kaddar, haven't you?"

The former emperor turns his head eloquently.

Kalasin sighs. "I'm not going to marry him, you know." It's the first time she's admitted it aloud, and the words have a heavy finality in the still night air.

His head still turned, Ozorne mutters something about how she should give some thought to her future.

"My future is with _you._"

Ozorne is silent for a whole minute after she says that.

"I'm not human. You are."

She takes her hand and presses it against his cheek, ignoring the dirt and grime that he's tried so hard to prevent, and shrugs helplessly. "Can't help who you fall in love with, I suppose?"

"You read too many romance novels."

Kalasin smiles. "I love you, too."

--

After bidding her goodnight, two hours later, and watching from the balcony as she sheds her robe and falls back into bed, curling up into a ball (since when has she slept like that?) and falling asleep, Ozorne finally flies away.

He returns to the flock, and to his perch in an old oak. The others are sound asleep already. The King and Queen are in the tree next to him, perched very close together. Jokhun's head droops ever so slightly, resting against his queen's blonde hair.

Ozorne remembers wondering if Stormwings were capable of feeling affection. Now he knows all too well that they are.

Even though he tucks his head under his metal wing, he can't sleep. Kalasin's words echo in his thoughts, and Ozorne _knows _that he can never let her go.

And he had thought that marrying the fourteen-year-old Tortallan princess would be a marriage of mere political convenience.

After digging his claws into the bark wrathfully for a while and hating the world for making him love her (he was happier without her, he tries to convince himself), Ozorne decides to set his troublesome thoughts aside, and do what he does best: plot.

He slips into deep thought, and is silent and pensive for the rest of the night.

By sunrise, he has a plan.

After a few quick words to King Jokhun, and at least half an hour of telling Rikash Moonsword that he _cannot _come along, Ozorne is gliding, under cover of the clouds, toward the South.

It takes him a few hours to find what he's looking for. The temple looks completely different, now, old and crumbled, aged by the desert and centuries of existence.

There is one priestess at the front. She kneels in front of the statue and lights the ceremonial incense. Ozorne is thankful that her back is turned, and he glides through the gates of the temple. The inside is just how he remembers it, and it isn't difficult to find the center of the temple.

The room is dark and cool, a welcome contrast from the world outside. At the head of the expansive room is a statue of the goddess Shakith herself. Her white eyes look down at him coolly, and her lips are painted in a smirk.

Ozorne feels out of place here, but he flaps onto the altar nevertheless. Bowing his head, he begins to murmur the necessary incantations in Old Thak, slowly at first, but with increasing speed as he remembers the words.

The incense has a heady scent, and he lowers his eyes to the stone floor, waiting, listening. After a few moments, he closes them completely. He remembers that Shakith is easily offended, and today of all days, he has no desire to accidentally insult her.

After a few minutes of waiting in the dark, watching patterns of light against the insides of his eyelids, he hears her voice, and he feels vibrations through the floor with his talons. He already knows that she has stepped out from the statue; he feels her feet against the floor and hears the soft clinking of her gold anklets.

"My, my." The blind goddess sounds amused, and Ozorne has to stifle his initial feeling of trepidation. "If it isn't the former Emperor Mage himself."

"You've heard, I see."

Shakith laughs, throwing her head back. "Of course. My sister was absolutely delighted."

He feels a slight tightening in his throat. "Ah."

"Don't be hurt, now," she purrs. It is an oddly eerie sound. "I always liked you better than your nephew. But you haven't visited me in such a long time, I was feeling neglected. At least you're making up for it now."

Ozorne keeps his eyes fixed on the floor. "I'm not visiting for the purpose of pure recreation, as you probably know."

"I suppose I did." The goddess sighs melodramatically. "Your sort _never _visits for the sake of it." Her white eyes narrow suddenly. "Oh. I see." She laughs again, making the hair on the back of his neck stand up. "I was _wondering_ why you had let a twenty-year old debt go so long unpaid. Now, look at me, and please don't ask to be emperor again."

Ozorne fixes his gaze on her face. "It's nothing like that. I have…a proposition, of sorts. A request, you could say."

He waits, and Shakith's eyes are unreadable, as always. "Go on," she says, finally. "I'm listening."

-


	21. Plots Hatched

**Note: **Thanks very much to everybody who reviewed. Sorry for the long wait for an update—high school is running me ragged.

_twenty-one: plots hatched_

-

The night is frigid and windy, unsurprising for late December. It is even colder on the coast than it is inland, and Ozorne retreats into the not-quite-adequate sanctuary of his metal wings, ducking his head against his chest, while still keeping an eye on the ship below.

It is docked on the far side of the northern harbor, just out of sight of the Imperial Palace. Ozorne allows his gaze to linger almost longingly on what he can see of his former home, before going back to observing the quality of the wood on the boarding planks.

The wind howls again, rattling the riggings on the ship's mast. Ozorne digs his talons into the post he is perched on, fighting back a shiver.

Far below him and three streets over, a small figure wrapped in a black cloak tiptoes through the lower city's streets cautiously. Deciding not to risk a lantern, she has a small orb of easily extinguishable blue fire in her palm, which lights the streets with an eerie sapphire glow.

Kalasin has never been out in Carthak alone, not in the four years she's been here. The slightest sound makes her jump, and she looks askance at each shift in the shadows. She draws her shawl tighter around her shoulders, and repeats the directions he had given her to the northern harbor again, under her breath.

It takes her a quite a while longer than anticipated to make it to the dock. She has to pass a tavern on the way, and spends five minutes huddled into the shadows in an attempt to avoid the drunken men staggering through the streets.

She is alone on the docks of the harbor, at last, and she looks up at the sky doubtfully, shivering a little in the cold air. Part of her wants to call his name out, but that would be beyond stupid. So Kalasin stands, and watches, and waits.

After a few minutes, her sharp eyes catch a glimpse of a flash of silver on the top of the mast of a ship about halfway down the dock. Something tells her that it is Ozorne, and Kalasin lights her Gift again, before setting off to the ship at a quick run.

--

An unpleasant thing beleaguering his wings and legs wakes Ozorne, and it takes him a few moments to blink the sleep away from his eyes.

He recognizes the woman pelting him with rocks instantly, although she stops as soon as he cracks an amber eye open to glare at her weakly. Kalasin folds her hands behind her back, hiding the rocks, before smiling innocently.

Ozorne flutters down to her. "I wish I didn't have such a weakness for your smiles," he says grumpily.

To which Kalasin kneels down and wraps her arms around him. "Oh, how I miss your sense of humor," she says mischievously.

He eyes her for a moment. "You won't miss it for long," Ozorne says, cryptically. "Come with me."

He leads her to the deserted captain's quarters, and she flings herself down onto the cot, reclining on her elbows and pushing her chest out ever so slightly. "This is very romantic," she says, with a smile. "But somehow, I don't expect that you only invited me here for an evening out."

Ozorne tries to remember the last time they had an evening out, and is struck with an odd urge to laugh at the thought of both of them, human and Stormwing, seated at a table in the Imperial Palace, drinking mild wine and discussing current events with elderly statesmen.

He blinks.

Maybe the cold weather is affecting him more than he thought.

Ozorne tilts his head to the side. "Get the blanket, if you need it. I don't think I like this area."

Kalasin gathers the thin blanket, giving him a questioning look as she stands up.

He spreads his wings out as far as they will go. "Stormwings don't like closed spaces."

"Oh," she says, abashed, as she follows him outside. Being taller than him is a strange sensation, and she almost wants to kneel, so that she can feel that things between them are almost normal again.

The front of the ship is deserted, and there is a hollow under the prow that Kalasin fits into quite comfortably. Ozorne chooses to pace on the deck, his metal claws clicking against the old wood. "What is it?" Kalasin asks curiously. "You seem…preoccupied."

Ozorne closes his eyes momentarily, gathering his nerves, and when he opens his eyes again, he remembers the milky-eyed goddess. "You might want to make yourself comfortable. I have something to tell you."

--

By the time he finishes, Kalasin is sure that she is on the verge of a complete breakdown. She opens her mouth, closes it again. "You're…going to be human again?" she whispers hoarsely. "But…"

"Shakith is a goddess, Kalasin. She has the power to make it happen."

Kalasin frowns. "Why?" she asks suddenly. "I mean, won't she be in…trouble…with the other gods if she turns you back?"

"She owes me," he says grimly. "I think the pantheon will understand."

Kalasin bites her lip. "Shakith will make you human again. And,"—her voice breaks slightly—"she'll let us leave here in peace. Let us start over?"

"In Sarain. I thought you would like it."

The former empress is silent for a little while. "What do we have to do in return?"

The question takes Ozorne by surprise. "Nothing," he says, a little too quickly. "Nothing."

"Gods never do something for nothing," she retorts.

Ozorne sighs. "You've grown cynical in my absence."

"Only a little. But can you blame me?" she exclaims, forgetting to keep her voice down. "In one year, everything has changed so much! You're a Stormwing, I've been put in virtual exile for _refusing to accept, _if I may quote, that you were dead and our marriage annulled, that I would never be allowed to return to Tortall again, and on top of that, your own nephew asking me to marry him!"

Ozorne turns away from her, refusing to acknowledge his hurt pride. "…I thought you would be happy," he says stiffly. "Obviously, I was wrong."

Kalasin exhales slowly. "Don't be angry," she says at last. She reaches out and touches his claw tentatively. "It's just that I've wanted something like this to happen for such a long time, but now it seems too good to be true."

"I would never mislead you," he replies, before turning back to her gaze. To his surprise, he feels a prick of guilt in his chest, but he shoves it away quickly, telling himself that his worries are in vain.

"Can you be a normal person?" she asks, after a few minutes. "I mean, we won't be nobility in Sarain."

"We'll manage, I suppose," he mutters. "You can heal. And I'm sure that I'll find a use for my magic."

Even though more questions are gnawing at her mind, Kalasin sits back, as close to satisfied as she is going to be tonight. "Very well," she tells him softly.

"Are you sure?" he questions. "I need to give Shakith my definite answer tonight."

Kalasin nods resolutely. "Does that mean that you'll be gone for a while?"

"Yes." He closes his eyes briefly. "Tonight is the last time you'll see me like this."

Kalasin blinks sudden tears from her eyes, and nods again.

"Don't worry." Ozorne touches her shoulder with his wing awkwardly. "I'll be in touch." He looks skyward. "We should go."

"Wait!" She tosses the blanket off, before leaning forward and hugging him tight. Ozorne lets her hold him, as he always does, and feels the dampness of her cheeks against his. When she finally lets go, her cheeks are streaked with tears, but she manages to smile, nevertheless. "Gods all bless."

Ozorne inclines his head. Not trusting himself to speak, he turns and flies away, heading south, until he is just a small silver speck in the night sky.

Kalasin watches him for a little while, before wiping her eyes and standing up, donning her cloak again. It is time to return to the Imperial Palace again, before she is missed.

--

The next evening, Kalasin is alone in the gardens, absentmindedly toying with a red rose, although her thoughts are all with her absent husband. She wonders about Sarain—the war-torn Sarain that she's read about in the history books, and the beautiful, wild Sarain her mother has told her about. The country that her namesake had been queen of.

She wonders what being a commoner is going to be like. It sounds intriguing, in a way.

"Kalasin?" a surprised voice asks, and she jumps off the bench, turning around.

She drops the rose upon seeing who her visitor is, and stares, startled, for a moment, before remembering to curtsey. "Your Majesty…"

Kaddar Iliniat walks over and takes her by the hand, gently lifting her up. "There is no need for the formality, Kalasin."

She nods at his feet, before taking a deep breath and looking up into his eyes. He lets go of her hand, and sits down, beckoning for her to do so as well.

Kalasin sits, folding her hands in her lap. She feels nervous, somehow, and thinks ruefully that things had been much less awkward between them _before, _at least on her side.

At last, Kaddar reaches out and touches her hand gently. "Kalasin?"

She manages to keep her body from tensing at his touch. "Yes?"

He struggles with what he has to say for a moment. "…Have you considered my proposal?"

"I…" She makes the mistake of looking back at him, and promptly buries her face in her hands. When she speaks again, her voice is muffled. "I…oh, Kaddar, it's so hard. I miss him so much."

Kaddar stares at her, obviously at a loss, before stroking her shoulder lightly. "I'm sorry," he says, even though he is a little bemused as to how his uncle could have been loved so much.

Kalasin sniffles. "Thank you. I promise I'll have my answer for you soon."

Kaddar exhales softly. "All right." He bends, kisses her cheek chastely. "I'll see you at the ball tonight?"

"Yes," she replies. "I'll see you then."

Kaddar leaves her alone then, slipping away through the lilac bushes. When she is sure he's gone, she sighs her relief at having a few more days, at most, of borrowed time.

--

The oldest temple in Elkallatum is deserted, as it had been the last time Ozorne visited. He flutters in the same fashion as before, and takes his place in front of the statue of Shakith, closing his eyes and casting them downward.

Shakith makes her appearance faster, this time; stepping out of the statue softly, save for the clinking of her gold anklets. "Look at me. Do you have your answer?"

Ozorne looks up, and his amber eyes fix on the goddess unblinkingly. "I'm ready."

-

**Note: **This story will be concluded in another chapter or so. As always, reviews appreciated.


	22. Epilogue

-

**Note: **Uh…it's been two years. The sad thing is, this has been written for a long time, and lost within the bowels of my computer. Yes, I suck. :D But hey, better late than never, right?

- -

Kalasin is sitting in the gardens two weeks later, when the first messenger hawk finds her.

For a few moments, she tries in vain to bat the persistent large golden bird away, a little confused as to why it's beleaguering her while she's trying to read. Then, the former empress catches sight of the thin parchment scroll tied to its leg, and she actually drops her books and squeaks, completely amazed.

Her fingers tremble slightly as she unties the letter from the hawk's leg. She gives the deserted gardens a furtive glance, making sure that nobody else is anywhere near her.

She kneels on the soft grass beneath the bench, and spreads the crumpled letter on the hard surface.

Just seeing his _handwriting_—elegant, a tiny bit shaky from lack of practice, the ink dried and flaking in some places, is enough to make her almost want to collapse in a helpless puddle of glee. The letter tells her everything she needs to know. Ozorne is alive, whole, _human _again, and, amazingly enough, hidden in the capital.

There is a merchant ship leaving for Sarain in a week's time. Their ship. He says he will be waiting for her there, and all she needs to do is leave the Imperial Palace and make it to the harbor undetected. Kalasin reads and rereads the letter over and over again, until she's memorized every word of it, including Ozorne's trademark closing to all of his letters to her, from as long back as she can remember. Always three or four words or closings scratched out, and finally _Regards, Ozorne _finishing it out.

She folds the letter into a tiny square in the middle of her palm; then, closes her eyes and concentrates for a moment, and then the letter is reduced into a tiny pile of ash in her hand. A breeze blows, carrying the ash away with it.

- -

It's either very late at night or very early in the morning when Kalasin slips on her black cloak and casts a last, almost regretful look at the rooms around her. There are memories in every corner of these rooms, so many that they almost strangled her when Ozorne disappeared. So many that they're causing her pain now.

She leaves quietly, shutting the door on the past five years of her life.

The Imperial Palace is deserted at this hour, something she's quite thankful for.

She runs into someone at the doors. "Kaddar," she says, not quite surprised to see him here.

The Emperor gazes at her for a moment, and smiles a little bitterly. "I knew you would."

"Can you blame me?" she replies.

"Where are you going, at least?"

Hesitating, she looks into his eyes. "Can I trust you?"

"You've always been able to."

"Sarain." In response to his surprise, she smirks a little. "My mother was born there. Shakith has guaranteed us a life of peace, freedom, and anonymity."

"Us." It is a statement, not a question. It's only confirmation of the barest whispers of rumors he's heard for the past month.

The former Empress meets his stare unflinchingly. "Ozorne and I."

Kaddar doesn't look like he knows whether to be glad for his friend, or curse bitterly.

"Don't worry. I…I don't think Carthak will hear from us again."

"It's better that way. And…thank you."

"For what?"

Kaddar places one hand on her head gently. "May all the gods bless you, Kalasin Tasikhe. I wish you and all your family a long and healthy life."

Kalasin blinks away sudden tears. "Thank you, Kaddar."

His hand moves from her head to her cheek. "Should you leave?"

She steps away from him, so that she's half out the door already. "Kaddar? Find a beautiful woman, and marry her, but make sure she's at least as remarkable as I am."

Kaddar smiles at her, and bows deeply as she leaves, and that's the last she will ever see of him.

- -

Their house in Sarain is small, but beautiful. It isn't the Imperial Palace, but it has rooms and a kitchen full of light. The gardens are surprisingly large, and a huge, mature cherry tree is the centerpiece. When Kalasin sees it for the first time, it is laden with sweet-smelling pink blossoms.

Strange-looking birds nest in its branches, and she thinks, amused, that Ozorne might not have said good-bye to his precious pets for good.

Ozorne waits for her near the front, and when she's finished inspecting the house, she comes back out to greet him. Her cheeks are flushed and her eyes are bright, and she's smiling as brightly as he's ever seen her. "Do you like it?" he asks awkwardly.

Her response is to fling herself into his arms and give him a very grateful kiss. "I love it. And yes," she whispers into his ear. "It's worth it. Every little bit of it."

- -

Kalasin has that _look _in her eyes again, and Ozorne knows that yet another one of their increasingly frequent battles looms ahead.

"I'm not asking for a lot—"

"Too much for my liking, either way—"

"Honestly!" she exclaims, stamping her foot. "I'm not asking for tons and tons of babies—I just want two or three!"

Ozorne glares at her. "Do you have any _idea _of the problems children cause? Yes, they're sweet and innocent babies, but what are you going to do when they're all grown up?"

Kalasin sighs. "For Mithros' sake, you aren't going to have to worry about any son deciding he wants your throne and _poisoning _you in your sleep, here."

"You never know."

Kalasin gives him an imploring look. "Please? I _promise _that none of our children will try and kill or otherwise harm us."

He scowls, and they glare at each other for a few long moments. "Fine."

She's taken by surprise. "…What?"

"I want daughters. _Only _daughters."

Kalasin blinks a few times. In all her life, she's never heard of a man who _wanted _daughters. "I'll, um, try my best?"

She tilts her head slightly, and inhales the scent of slightly burnt chicken. Squeaking in dismay, she rushes out of the bedroom, leaving Ozorne standing by the window. His fingers clench, almost convulsively, around the curtain's fabric, burning tiny holes into it.

He sees the milky-eyed goddess in his mind's eye, and remembers the terms of their agreement—again. Ozorne sighs heavily, and hopes, against all reason, that Shakith will forget—

"Ozorne! Dinner's ready!"

The former emperor leaves, and as he greets Kalasin with a quick kiss, he hopes that he's not making a mistake that both of them will regret.

- -

Ozorne finds her out in the gardens, again. She's on her knees, gazing up at the bare cherry tree, with Suri in her arms. He walks out to join her, knowing that he won't get her inside the house for a while. As soon as he wraps an arm around Kalasin's shoulders, holding her close to keep her warm, his daughter senses his presence, and gurgles happily.

_"Why?" she asks him bleakly. Her eyes are red and swollen. "Why was she born like this? And why didn't you just _tell _me, damn it?"_

_Ozorne is startled to hear her curse. "It's the price to pay for bargaining with gods."_

_Kalasin closes her eyes. "You never told me there was any price to pay. You told me it was a favor that Shakith had done you. Repaying old debts, or something of the sort."_

_"Kalasin, it couldn't have been helped, either way—"_

_"Our daughter's _eyes_ the price to pay? You could have warned me," she whispers bitterly. "I thought she'd have your eyes. And she's so _beautiful. _I almost died when she opened her eyes and looked at me."_

_He says nothing._

_"I just can't believe it." Kalasin wipes at her eyes with a corner of the sheet. "She's not going to be able to see us, not going to see the skies or the grass or the pink blossoms from the cherry tree—"_

_"Gods, Kalasin, I _know._" His voice comes out harsher than he had intended. "But she's not going to be a cripple. She's our daughter—blind or not, she will have a bright future."_

_Kalasin blinks hard. "I…yes." She is silent for a few moments. "I'll get used to it."_

_"She may be blind, but she can't be allowed to remain nameless for much longer." Ozorne touches the soft hair of the baby in Kalasin's arms. "Have you thought of anything?"_

_"Suri."_

_"Princess?"_

_She nods up at him, waiting for an answer._

_Ozorne smiles a little. "It's very fitting."_

- -

It's late spring, now, and he's in the gardens again, observing the various nests in the branches of their cherry tree. The birds here seem to thrive for the rest of the year, but he needs to observe this year's nesting, to see if this year's generation is going to be any different from the previous year's.

The peace is shattered by a sudden squeal, and something small tackles him from behind, wrapping her thin arms around his neck. "Papa!"

Not really surprised at the intrusion, Ozorne reaches around and pulls his daughter onto his lap. Her skirts are muddy, and she has flowers in her hair. She beams up at where she thinks his face is, and he bends, kissing her cheek gently. "Good morning."

"Morning," she echoes, clinging to his arm and listening intently to the chirps coming from above. "Birds?"

"Mm-hmm."

A few minutes later, Kalasin enters the gardens. Her skirts are equally muddy, and Ozorne wonders, absentmindedly, what the two women in his life _do _on their morning walks. She greets him with a kiss, and sits down next to them both. "Birds again?"

Suri nods, and Kalasin smiles. "Well, I suppose breakfast can wait."

Much later, Ozorne thinks that if _this _is their happily ever after, it is much better than all the books made it sound.

- -

After two years, this is it. It's over.

Kalasin and Ozorne? FTW. Thank you to everybody who's offered feedback and stuck with me, along the way. :)

…Never fear, I'll be back. Harder, better, faster, stronger, and two years older and a better writer, as anyone who's read my more recent works can testify. Expect some more works about Kally and Ozorne – I'm not sure when, but rereading this has helped me rediscover my love for their relationship. In the meantime, though, it may be easier to get a fix by checking out my other stuff involving them.


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